Retro Badass

Language is the Source of All Misunderstandings

In Haiti, an orphan can have two living parents. The system is different than America, the word “orphan” is a broad categorization that covers children with both dead parents and parents who decide to put their children into the system. The latter is almost like foster care here in America, except not nearly as comfortable.

A week or so after the earthquake, some Americans, Baptists mostly, loaded orphans onto a bus. They were taking them to the Dominican Republic, to an orphanage. As they began to drive away, a young woman threw a bundle through one of the bus windows and ran off, in the bundle was a baby.

They stopped the bus, chased the woman down, and caught her. We’re sorry; we can’t take this baby we don’t have the paperwork to get her across the border.

Eventually the young mother took her child and left, the bus started again, they reached the Dominican Border, were searched, found clean and let through.

This isn’t the story of Laura Silsby, I don’t have anything to say about Laura Silsby, because I don’t know anything other than what you’ve read in the New York Times. But I did know this story, and you’ve probably not read anything about it.

The nicest orphanage in Haiti abuts the Port Au Prince Airport. It doubles as one of the city’s largest Protestant Churches and is reminiscent of 1900’s Hacienda in both layout and architecture.

The orphanage/church consists of five two-story buildings laid out in an open rectangle around a dusty courtyard about seventy five by fifteen yards. Around the perimeter is an eight-foot tall cinder-block wall topped with civilian razor wire. Brinks security is now Broadview Security, except in Haiti, where it’s still rock and metal. 200 miles North in Florida, men protect their homes like George Jetson, and in Port Au Prince they do it like Fred Flintstone.

Their way works pretty well.

There is no glass. Glass is expensive and stops the breeze, windows are big and opened and look out on wide hallways like balconies. The roof is corrugated metal and held above the tops of the building by steel girders to help with the air flow.

The actual orphanage building caps the closed end of the rectangle. It’s a poured-cement building, gray and square. There’s a balcony on the second floor where the girls live. They can see the airplanes taking off from there. They think that this will fascinate us newcomers. It does, I take dozens of pictures there. But there’s nothing to stop the sounds of the plane’s engines, which can go on well past one in the morning. From what I was able to gather, the kids really have gotten used to the noise, they sleep fine (the heat maybe?), but maybe they shouldn’t have to put up with it, bad for their health or something. Honestly, I couldn’t say. They are where they are.

The orphanage and church was started by a man named Pastor Edmond. Edmond’s story is difficult to piece together, he’s become somewhat of a folk hero among the short-term missionaries, so details and numbers are a bit smudged there. And, Edmond didn’t speak the best English, so it’s fuzzy. The best I can piece together.

In the early 1970’s, a young man named Edmond was called into the ministry. He didn’t go. Instead, he went into business, I think. But, he did get an education, the faded photographs on his office wall held evidence of a graduation with robes and caps. God called him again, a few, I think three, years later.

At this point, he either followed, or waited for a third call depending on the story. Either way, by the mid 1970’s he had started the first Church and orphanage, I think that it’s the one we’re sleeping in. But this could be the second or third, that part of the story was unclear.

So began Pastor Edmond’s ministry. It’s grown a bit. I think that he’s started twenty two, and all of them, would seem to be orphanages as well. Some versions of the story had orphanages at only a few of the churches, but that take was in the minority.

This was the biggest Church and orphanage. There were 85 kids here when we visited, about the same level as before the earthquake. Immediately after, the numbers dropped dramatically as parents came and took their kids. Most of the original kids tricked back in a couple of weeks, and there were a few new orphans brought in as a result of the quake. But the number’s stable and huge really. None of the other orphanages have this many kids (and, well, adults too, some 25 year old former orphans still live in the orphanage and work as cooks).

Edmond has a son named Wesley. Wesley is quiet, about five foot eight and 200 pounds. When he was a teenager, Edmond sent him to Miami to live with family and attend school. Wesley stayed in America and went to college and got a job. About a year ago, Wesley left his family in Miami and moved to Port Au Prince to take over management of the orphanages. His English is impeccable, so is his Creole. Wesley is the ideal guide and translator. One day I asked if we could try some sugar cane, that afternoon our bus pulled over and Wesley bought us a bundle of canes. He was a truly good man.

Every night, in a small, open hallway, with concrete walls spattered with chipping yellow paint, the orphans worship. The floor is linoleum and old, it’s turned the same color yellow as the paint on the walls. A generator floods the air with noise and smell. But they fill it too.

They fill it with the Holy Spirit and they fill it with their voices. They fill it with worship sung aloud and with passion in Creole. The hallway’s acoustics are negative, laughable. But the sound is rich and soft, like smoke over ice. It is beautiful and weak and strong and rich and poor and full of truth.

The first night, they asked us why we are here. They don’t understand. Randall, a middle-aged pastor with the spirit of a child, tells a story through translators. It’s something about breaking a window at his Church as a child. The story didn’t carry across the hallway nearly as well as the singing. I only got bits and pieces of the tale through the noise of the generator. Someone tells me later that he’s talking about Christ’s grace, illustrating it with his own mischief.

Randall walked down the hall a ways, and finished his talk. This wasn’t the best thing that could have happened. Randall, as I would come to find throughout the week, was a gifted speaker, glorious, simple and pure… for about the first 3/4 of his speaking. Then, he’d go on too long, and say something stupid. His words were harmless, no one ever took offense to them, and he meant nothing negative by them. But, he would step in it from time to time.

This night, I witness the Randall phenomenon for the first time. He starts asking questions of the Americans in our group, and then repeats them to the translator who asks the orphans the same questions in turn.

“How many of you have a car? How many of you have a college education? How many of your have your own home? How many of you have a job?” Every Americans raised their hands to every question, raised them slowly and awkwardly. This was bad, really bad. Dear Randall: I think we all know that there are a few… differences among the gathered.

His point slowly became clear; he was talking about how Jesus loves us all the same no matter what we have, no matter who we are.

A good message, a true message. But within its truth is the sorest issue for the Christian missionary in Haiti. We have everything, they have nothing. Everyone in our group felt this, we were pained by it, and we were doing what we could to help the children sitting in front of us, never raising their hands to say “yes, I have this thing”. The children knew, they understood that we had everything, and that they had nothing.

For both groups, the issue was a wound. Randall was throwing salt in it. We could have used the reminder, it was good for us. We must never forget the disparity in our wealth else we become callous and self-centered. But they didn’t need the reminder. They knew well enough.

But Randall meant well, we all meant well. I went to bed hot, mosquito-bitten and blessed by Pastor Edmond’s children.

There were many more blessings to come.

End Part 2.

I had an accident with my plane in the Desert of Sahara

The plane is miserable, if I’m honest with myself, none of this tough guy business, the plane is miserable. It was an old Air Bus, European and old. Very old. My backpack was jammed under my legs. It is a maximum legal carry bag. It should be in the overhead bin, not under my feet and the seat in front of me.

This has happened for two reasons.

Reason # 1 The plane is filled halfway with American short-term missionaries like me. They are scared of having their checked bags stolen, and so they’re pushing that carry-on size limit something fierce.

Reason #2: The other half of the plane is filled with Hatians. Expats, businessmen, first sons of immigrants, there were a lot of Hatian subgroups represented here, but they were all, in their soul, Haitians. Well, the Haitians are bringing American stuff back. They carry a lot of pillows, clothes, and gas-station toys. And they’re carrying them to such abundance, that I can guarantee that a good portion of it will end up for sale. Usually, this is called smuggling, today, this is called Spirit Airlines.

See that? I just wasted thirty seconds of your life talking about one inconvenience that I felt on a two hour flight. That’s bad writing, and bad living. I had to ask God to stop me from letting discomfort distract me from his adventure. Because you’ve got to give all that stuff up to really get changed by the world.

So there will be no more time wasted.

This is the story of a country 52 days after devastation. This is the truth that I found, without all that messy self-examination that literary types love so much. (And yeah, I’m going to be throwing a lot of quasi-intellectualism in here, so yeah, I’m a literary type, I know). Because this story isn’t about me, not really, I’ve been changed, yes, don’t get me wrong, but I was changed by the river that I was dancing in, not my own steps.

“Your body will collide with the earth and you will bear witness. In this way you will be compelled to grapple with the limitless kindness and bottomless cruelty of humankind—and perhaps realize that you yourself are capable of both.”

Mark Jenkins, the Ghost Road

The Port Au Prince Airport is a quasi-U.S. military base. Like a miniature Heathrow, except full of cargo planes, no sexy fighters. Airliners are intermingled on the runway. It was all very helter skeltor. The planes empty into what can only be described as a holding area. Airport security is mingling about. Those arriving stand around with their backpacks on.

It is now time to reset your watch. Welcome to Haiti time. The conversation isn’t very rigid, but it doesn’t take long to learn. Basically, just add a bit of time, and a lot of vagary and you’ve got it, accurate to within two hours.

The wait isn’t that bad by Haitian time.

The wait ends and leads down to a Haitian folk band dressed like bumblebees, playing morocco’s and steel guitars while American soldier posed for pictures. I guessed that this was the Haitian equivalent of Hawaiian lei-girls, but I couldn’t be sure. They had a sombrero laid out for tips.

We get onto a shuttle bus and drive to the old hanger where customs has relocated. Baggage claim shares the real estate. Customs is efficient, and baggage claim is chaos. Bags are driven from the planes to the warehouse loading docks in box trucks, and then dumped into a big pile. There is no line, Americans are pushing forward to grab their bags before they’re all unloaded, and the Haitian workers are telling everyone to get “back!” The waiting Haitians are less physically aggressive, but I’m pretty sure they’re giving the workers hell in Creole.

I got my bag, everyone in my group got their bags. But some people don’t get their bags, so no guarantees.

As soon as we leave baggage claim, we see food distribution. It’s very small operation by some airport workers, but every little bit helps. We’re told that the streets are as bad as India.

Maybe they are, maybe they aren't, I've never been to India, so I really can't say. We walk out into them with little fanfare, one minute we’re under an airport awning, the next we’re pushing through crowds of Haitians waiting outside the airport, through six inch deep water from potholes and failed drainage onto a Blue Bird school bus. A Blue Bird, in Haiti! I thought that was pretty cool, but I would come to hate that bus.

And then we drove to the orphanage, where I met a little prince named Wilton.

End Part 1.

The Airman and the Prince

Language is the source of misunderstandings.

Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them.







"Were you so sad, then?" I asked, "on the day of the forty-four sunsets?"
But the little prince made no reply.

Maggie M'Gill

Photo From Life Magazine.

How many women of a generation found their truth in Maggie M'Gill?

The Doors

Booker T. Washington

In the winter you start out cold. Always, but never wear pants. Pants inhibit movement and make you sweat. Sweat evaporates and makes you colder. You’ll wear a base layer, a sweatshirt, a wind-stopper or a fleece. But always the same swim trunks. Always run in the swim trunks. Even when it’s so cold, that you’re legs get numb and you don’t feel when a briar rips blood out of your thigh.

You start out cold. Your fingers begin to get tingly, and your face is numb.

The trail leaves a parking lot, goes to gravel, and then enveloped by woods. The gravel is mixed with red clay, and then turns into all red clay in an inverted, outside, sloping turn. By the top of the turn, your calves start to feel like the targets of a circus knife-thrower, or your knees feel creaky, and you feel like there’s some big rock in the gears down there.

The blood starts pumping, your fingers feel warm, and you start to sweat. You wish you hadn’t worn that base-layer/sweatshirt/wind-stopper/fleece. Oh well.

You run up another hill, then another, now for easy street. You get to run down hill, you feel great, knees are smooth, calves are cool, there’s wind in your lungs. You’re moving to Kashmir.

The woods now end at the shore of a lake slough. The trail follows the shore. You brace your legs for the ramp, a sickening drop, then right back up. It’s like running through an ax wound from Paul Bunyan. Your breath catches after that. The slough is giving way to the lake. You see the trail bank hard right to parallel the lake shore. There is a massive tree bent over the trail.

In civilization, a bent tree like this is considered a deformity. Trees aren’t meant to bend over like arches. No, they should be straight and tall.

In civilization, this tree’s deformity will be copied with metal and bent over a river. It will be called an artistic wonder.

You don’t run away from things. You run to them. You don’t run away from your anger, guilt, shame, heart break from two years ago. You don’t even run away from last night’s heartbreak.

You run towards a deformed tree, under its arch and around a hard, right turn. You run towards a hill top, with your head craned to the left to gaze at sail masts on the far shore, where the sun refracts off their polished metal.

You run towards a place where arches don’t need to be six hundred feet tall to be magnificent. A place where a seven-foot arch mystifies you and tells you that yes, there is a God. That he made you. He loves you. That he made that tree for so many reasons, one of which you realize is simply to give you joy on this day when your knees are smooth, your calves are cool, and the red clay has given way to black dirt, pine-needles and dead leaves.

Snow Day Goofin'

I am an idiot.

Late night last night, well, not late by Samford standards, but late by Eslinger Farms Inc. standards for sure. I am tired, what can I say, you can get used to having eight hours of sleep. Go in, talk to dad, he’s doing something on Google Earth. I’m always secretly impressed by how much he’s embraced technology. My dad’s a cool guy; don’t tell him I said so.

But yeah, I’m an idiot, because, back before that nice talk with my dad, I locked my keys in my new truck.

Idiot.

This morning I realize my idiocy.

Dad’s got a spare key.

It’s 30 miles away.

He’s sending someone with the key.

Oh yeah, it’s snowing, in March, in Tennessee. That’s odd. (Polemic: Just because it has been a cold winter, Global Warming has not been disproven…but, smarter persons than I have pointed out the stupidity of such a statement. Polemic-Over)

Call from dad, deliveryman is stuck a mile away, go get meet him for keys on the four wheeler.

One mile.

Start: the embankment I totaled my Tahoe on, gravel straightaway, sharp turn, two hills, straight. Halfway there: now on county road, pavement, last hill is a monster, 60 degree angled and mad, ice and snow covered. Finish.

One mile.

Only one thing to do…

LAST WINTER GEAR TEST:

This would be my final (I hope) test of my cold weather gear. Since it would consist of little cardiovascular movement for warmth and constant wind, it’s definitely a more extreme test of the capabilities.

Get on the four-wheeler, ride.

Let’s start with my feet and move up. My boots are Gore-Tex, material of the gods. I’m pretty sure that Achilles’ second set of armor had a Gore-Tex shell thrown in. Anyway, the outsoles of the boot are sealed tight. The tongue is pretty tight and keeps most water out, but… sometimes it leaks in. I have the solution. Gore-Tex socks! (Sensing a pattern?)

Lt. Dan tells Forrest to take care of his feet, good advice. Socks are the key here. Underneath all of this Gore-Tex I’ve got on Merino Wool socks. Itch-free, warm, wicking, these socks do it all. My toes didn’t get cold, but you chop off a few more degrees and I may want to upgrade to a thicker model of the sock.

Legs: My base- layer is a synthetic miracle. It’s comfy like cotton, but lacks the propensity to kill you with hypothermia. I roll these over the wool socks and overlap them both with the Gore-Tex sock. Next, a sturdy mountain khaki. The least important layer really, and I found it to inhibit movement.

Then the Shell, another synthetic miracle. A pair of pants that kept me as dry as a scuba dry-suit.

Mostly a repeat with the core. Same base-layer, fleece vest, another waterproof shell.

The performance of the top and bottom portions of my kit performed identically. I was warm, and I was dry. Despite a heavy, spitting snow, I found no compromises in the water-tightness of my load out. I didn’t swim, and so I’m not 100% sure, but I do feel good about it. And it was cold today, man it was cold, and I wasn’t completely bundled up. With just a few modifications, I think that I’m good for a severe drop in temperature.

Perspiration is another matter. I was sitting on a four-wheeler the entire time, and so I didn’t sweat. This leaves a gaping hole in the test. Almost all of the layers I’m wearing are designed with wicking properties. But each to a different degree, there’s no perfect suit, you’re going to sweat. But I wish I had a good gauge as to how quick that sweat will evaporate in different conditions. This will be something I’m looking at more in the future.

Hands are toasty in thick mountaineering gloves. And dry, really dry. Some chemical hand-warmers would be nice, but again, not a necessity.

The ride was a bit close at a few points, but I made it up the last, foreboding hill, got the keys and crept back home. It was a good time.

+Cabela's Pinnacle Gloves (Gore-Tex)

+Columbia Whirlibird Parka

+Timberland Washington Hiker Boot (Gore-Tex)

+Mountain Hardware Windstopper Vest

+Patagonia Capilene Base Layer

+Icebreaker Merino Wool Mid Crew Sock

+Cabela's Gore-Tex Socks